The New Verse News presents politically progressive poetry on current events and topical issues.

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Saturday, March 31, 2007

What light went out in the sandIs this the dance we signed up forI mean Jesus Christ I am notNor can I get the smirk off the President's crawYou just know there’s a car on the back lotWith a bad mufflerSuch a deal he saysSomewhere between the words TerrorDemocracy and FreedomBut what about the kid?Not old enough to voteAnd his leg is in the slopAcross the street from an oil wellIt’s one of those daysIn this case the day before ChristmasWell Santa was Turkish, then GermanAnd now he’s a blow up dollAnd some guy on camera is punchingThe ten foot balloon that is himSo what if she gets a little chemoOr Trump has weird hair, or Ms DipShowed a breast or unzippedI mean what a cross we schleppWho the hell is watching the sheepTake a little walk to cemeteryLeave flowers, a pictureOf what was himFeel his innocence, his determinationThe uniform, the infinityListen to the grass growSee a gun, a kissA gift of sunlightThe other side of the moon

David Plumb’s latest fiction book is A Slight Change in the Weather. He has worked as a paramedic, a cab driver, a, cook and tour guide. A long time San Francisco writer, he now lives in South Florida . Will Rogers said, “Live in such a way that you would not be ashamed to sell your parrot to the town gossip.” Plumb says, “It depends on the parrot.”

Philippines Wins Little LeagueWorld Series--only to be taken away in disgrace

when other Pinoys ratted outsome of the teammates who were tooold or not from the locale.

Kalat nang kalat.So much man-made mess already that when a typhooncauses mudslides to bury ten thousand

people, it’s not news-worthy enoughto make the headlines.

Aaron O. Gillego, 27, graduated summa cum laude (B.A. in English) from the College of Mount Saint Vincent, where he was a recipient of the Corazon C. Aquino Scholarship. He received a fellowship to finish his M.F.A. in Creative Writing (May 2007) at the University of Miami. He resides in Miami Beach, FL and teaches high school English at Toras Emes Academy, where he has worked for four years.

CHENEY stands under a massing clouddescending from the banner of TIME’scover of March 19, 2007 in a black suithands joined demurely, mouth, as ever,a compressed flatline. To his R, our L,a bolded caption calls out his status:The Verdict on CHENEY: "Libby wasconvicted, but it’s the Vice Presidentwho is under a cloud. How CHENEY’stake-no-prisoners style has made himone of Bush’s biggest liabilities." Cry,cloud, drench him in earned obloquy.

Book LXXIV: CHENEY’s Absent

CHENEY's absent as McCain kicks-offat Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, finessinghis POW yrs: "34 yrs ago I came home froman extended period abroad. I'm running toprotect this country against its enemies abroad,"lambasting somebodies for "platitudes, not ideas,insults, not ideas. Americans want ideas. I'llchallenge the American people to reject anysound-bites that have failed us in the past."(Wuzzat writ-by CHENEY's best bite-master?)

Book LXXV: CHENEY Ventriloquizing Giuliani

“Mayor Giuliani has a Big Problem – he soundslike Dick CHENEY!” Howard Dean tells MSNBC;Keith Olbermann: "A survivor of 9/11 threatensvoters with a new 9/11 if they don't votefor him " & says ‘America will be safer w/aRepublican president & I mean me.’ "This isterrorism dressed-up as counter-terrorism.Do a...Robespierre, but don’t be surprisedAmericans are sick & tired of you." Is in-visible CHENEY ventriloquizing Giuliani?

Book LXXVI: CHENEY "Deeply saddened"

[newspoem]

WASHINGTON (CNN)

Lewis "Scooter" Libby, former chief of staffto VPOTUS Dick CHENEY, was sentenced Tuesdayto 30 months in prison for lying to investigatorslooking into the leak of a CIA operative's identity.

He also was fined $250,000.Libby was convicted March 6 of 4 counts in a 5-countindictment alleging perjury, obstruction of justice& making false statements to FBI investigators.

He plans to appeal the verdict.

CHENEY released a "deeply saddened" statement& he hopes that his appealwill "returna final result consistent with what we knowof this fine man

who has served tirelessly & with great distinctionin the State & Defense departments& in the White House.

Ihave always considered him to be a manof the highest intellect,judgment & personal integrity --a man fully committedto protecting the vital security interests of the United States &its citizens."

Book LXXVII: VPOTUS CHENEY Exempts His Office

[newspoem][U.S. House of Reps. Comm. on Oversight & Reform]

The Oversight Committee has learnedthat over the objections of the National Archives,VPOTUS CHENEY exempted his officefrom the POTUS’ order that establishesgovernment-wide procedures for safeguardingclassified national security information.VPOTUS CHENEY asserts that his office is notan "entity within the executive branch."

As described in a letterfrom Chairman Waxman to the VPOTUS,the National Archives protested the VPOTUS positionin letters written in Jun. & Aug. 2006.When these letters were ignored,

the National Archives wrote in Jan. 2007to AG Alberto Gonzalesto seek a resolution of the impasse.

In his letter to VPOTUS CHENEY, Waxman waxes:"I question both the legality& wisdom of your actions. ...[I]t would appear particularly irresponsible to give an officewith your history of security breaches an exemptionfrom the safeguards that apply to all otherexecutive branch officials."

Book LXXVIII: LIBER@TING LIBBYA warning4 the4th

What does it take to liberate a Libby?The right man, putting the right wordinto the right man’s ear, at the right time,on Executive Rights for the right guys,Dick CHENEY, sui generis, excepted,pleading he’s not really an executive.What is he, really? Why, just by askingyou’re violating his inexecutive priviliges.If I were you, I’d watch what I was doing.But I’m not you, I’m just warning you.

US VPOTUS Dick CHENEY has had minor surgeryto replace the battery that powers a heartpacemaker (defibrilator) monitoring &maintaining his heartbeat.

During his June physical check-up itwas functioning properly &he showed no signs of new coronaryblockages,but last month, his doctors discoveredits battery was finally running low.CHENEY, 66,

has had 4 heart attacks, quadruple bypass surgery operations to clear blocked arteries,& operations to clear blood clots in his knees; in March he started takingblood-thinning medicineto treat another deadly blood clot in his lower left leg.

Book LXXX: CHENEY, Mr. Freeze

An invisible frost-line descends over CHENEY’sBeltway-life on Frontline’s “Cheney’s Law” asfirst he serves, then runs Republican presidentsby any & all stratagems; he ages, hardens intothe Mr. Freeze of the fridge of Republican power.

Book LXXXI: CHENEY submits himselfOnce again, CHENEY submits himselfto the nano-surgeons of Walter Reed,thinking: “I’m a mound of meat, a Man.”He’s more than that, but when down,Dubya’s up, doing his direst bidding;or is he? CHENEY fears he isn't now:“How the f*ck did Dubya slip my grasp?”Dubya laffs behind the hospital curtain,thinking of all he’s done on his own:ride his bike, cut brush, drink beer.

Book LXXXII: CHENEY Lights Up An Obama-cigar

CHENEY lights up an Obama-cigar:“S’been a g.d. while since I cracked‘coon Obama’s my cousin 8th-removed.‘S’it time to pitch that nigger a ball? No,Wait! That’ll only bail Hillary out, now.I’ll say she’s my cousin 7th-removed!That’ll frost her Clintonista cookies!Float it in time for the SC primary;incest’s a no-no inside the Beltway,but plays the balls in the boondocks!”

CHENEY & McCain vowedin mtgs with Iraq's prime ministerMon. that the U.S. would maintainlong-term military presence in Iraquntil al-Qaida is defeated there.

Explosions went off near the heavily fortified GreenZoneshortly after CHENEY arrived. Helicopter gunshipscircledcentral Baghdad, but no details...immediatelyavailable.

Presumptive [R] candidate for president, McCain,linked his political future to military success inIraq,& met with Iraqi P.M. Nouri al-Maliki who beganseparate talks with VPOTUS CHENEY who discussedongoing negotiations over a long-term securityagreementto would replace the U.N. mandate for foreign troopsset to expire by end of year.

Al-Maliki: "...relations between the 2countries...future & agreement..security...development of the economy & reconstruction& terrorism."

McCain" "important to maintain U.S. commitment inIraq, clear al-Qaida from its last urban stronghold:Mosul, 225 miles NW of Baghdad. We recognize al-Qaidais on the run, but not defeated; continues to pose agreat threat to security & very existence of Iraq as ademocracy...still a lot more of work 2B done."

McCain arrived in Iraq on Sunday to discuss with theShiite leader need for progress on political reforms,incl. laws on holding provincial elections & equitabledistribution of Iraq's oil riches.

CHENEY arrived at Baghdad International Airport for his3rd trip to Iraq where 160K American troops aredeployed & the U.S. death toll is nearing 4,000.

Violence dropped throughout the capital with influx30,000+ additional U.S. soldiers & a Sunni revoltagainst al-Qaida & a cease-fire by radical Shiitecleric al-Sadr's Mahdi Army militia.U.S. military saysattackshave fallen by about 60% since last February.

Police found bodies of 3 members of a U.S.-alliedgroup fighting al-Qaida in Udaim, 70 miles n. ofBaghdad. Members of the mostly Sunni groupsincreasingly targeted by suspected al-Qaida members toderail recent security gains.

Dick CHENEY, VPOTUS-US,triggered speculation that hehas been using a tour of the Middle Eastto prepare Iran’s neighboursfor a possible war with Tehran.

CHENEY’s 9-day tour included stopsin Turkey, the Gulf &Afghanistan,insisting that Iran must not beallowed to develop nuclear weapons:

“The important thing to keep in mindis the objective that we sharewith many of our friends in the region:that a nuclear-armed Iranwould be very destabilising for the entire area,”Mr CHENEY told ABC News before arrivingin Kabul, Afghan capital, after visiting Oman.

Challenged on the recentNational Intelligence Estimate by US intelligenceofficials,which concluded that Iran’s nuclear weapons programmestopped in late 2003because of international pressure, Mr CHENEY said:

“What it says is that they have definitely had in thepasta programme to develop a nuclear warhead–[but] that it would appear that they stoppedthat weaponisation process in 2003. [Nontheless,]We don’t know whether or not they’ve restarted [it.but]What we do know is that they had then, & have now,a process by which they’re trying to enrich uranium,which is the key obstacle they’ve got to overcomein order to have a nuclear weapon. [We now know]They’ve been working at it for years.” [da capo]

A senior aide to Mr CHENEY was forced to denythat the 9-day trip to Turkey & the Middle Eastwas part of a strategy by the VPOTUS-USto build support for military action against Iran.

Asked by journalists travelling on Mr CHENEY’s planeabout the VPOTUS-US’s repeated commentsabout Iran during his tour, CHENEY’s aide said:“That’s not what these discussions are about.”

The official [then] acknowledged Mr CHENEY’s talkswith the Oman government focused on “the concernswe have about the full range of their [Iran’s]activities”.

These included the country’s linksto the radical Hamas authorities in Gaza& Washington’s belief that Iran has becomethe dominant power in Lebanonthrough its sponsorship of Hizbollah.

General Dan McNeill, US commanderof Nato forces in Afghanistan,told The Daily Telegraph in Sept.:Advanced weaponssmuggled across the Iran borderto the Talibancould only have come with the complicityof the Iranian governmentor elements within its security services.

“Yes, ‘Help.’ We shout help until they…well…until theyhelp us. They have ears.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean? I’ve seen their ears. Of course,they’re on the small side, and my cousin Fred told methey taste good only when cooked in sea bass oil,but…”

“I mean, it’s been done. Unsuccessfully.”

“When?”

“When hasn’t it? Humans hear the word every day fromtheir own kind. They’ve heard it in the Sudan. They’veheard it in New Orleans. They’ve heard it in Tibet.Whenever there’s a life-threatening crisis—a naturaldisaster, an incurable disease, a genocide, it’salways, ‘Help, help, help.’ Humans are tired ofhearing the word spoken.”

“So what do we say?”

“We don’t say anything.”

“We don’t? We keep quiet like a bunch of penguineggs?”

“No, we sing.”

“We sing? What do we sing?”

“We sing, ‘Help.’”

“We do?”

“One of us does, anyway. And we sing it on the showall the humans watch—the American humans,anyway—American Icicle. American Idleness. AmericanIdolatry. Whatever it’s called. Twenty-six millionAmericans a week watch it.”

“So we sing, ‘Help, help, help—we’re losing our iceand we have no place to sit, to stand, to sleep. Sohelp, help, help.’”

“No, we sing the song the way it was written and trustin their intelligence to comprehend its relevance toour situation and their own impending environmentalcalamity.”

“Wouldn’t the meaning go right over their heads? Theymight think we were only Beatles’ impersonators, thepolar-bear equivalent of the Monkees.”

“You have a point. Maybe we should get a football teamtogether instead. Humans love football. And the NFLhas been talking about having an internationalfranchise. Why not in the Arctic? This would bringpublicity to our cause.”

“Or maybe we could become the icon of the most famoussoft-drink manufacturer in the world.”

“Been there, slurped down that. And what do we have toshow for it except for a couple of red-and-white beachballs and a caffeine addiction?”

“Better start warming up your voice.”

“‘Help, you know I need somebody.’”

“Sing it, bear.”

“‘Help, not just anybody.’”

“That’s right!”

“‘Help, you know I need someone.’”

“Let it all out!”

“‘HEEEELLLLLLPPPP!’”

Mark Brazaitis is the author of three books of fiction, including The River of Lost Voices: Stories from Guatemala, winner of the 1998 Iowa Short Fiction Award, and An American Affairs: Stories, winner of the 2004 George Garrett Fiction Prize.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

The man who doesn't read a newspapercan't visualize children cringingat the sound of engines overhead or gunfirein the street. It never crosses his mindthat people will hate soldiersif they kick in their doors, ransack their homes.These are not images his mind can capture.

This is only a movie andhe's the director in a white ten-gallon hat.War is theoretical and clean:black hats and white hats.No messy pools of red.

Phyllis Wax keeps up with the news in Milwaukee, Wisconsin when she is not sailing up the Niger on her way to Timbuktu or trekking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Her poem "Fatalities in Iraq: 2nd Edition" appears in the recently released anthology on peace and justice, Out of Line.

That's right, ladies. Step right up here and claim your money. Five hundred dollars to each and every woman who has the baby then gives it up for adoption, to be paid within thirty days of the baby's birth. Hell, they'll even throw in free medical costs, and that doesn't mean shipping girls off to Walter Reed. Scout's honor. But if that fifteen-year-old impregnated by her uncle decides to keep the baby, deal's off. If that twenty-year-old mother of six decides she can't give this one up either, deal's off. There are infertile women with their arms already trapped in a rocking motion. Registered voters. Republicans. There were 75,000 abortions in Texas last year. Our president's home state. Our former president's home state. Lyndon Johnson's home state. The state where future presidents might be aborted. If they can convince just five percent of the women to go through with their pregnancies, that would save 3,000 lives. Almost as many soldiers as have died fighting in Iraq. Or been caught in Baghdad terrorist attacks. Or struck by Friendly Fire.

Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts(Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Bowling becomes us / we look the partnot half as old as we say we arediseased obese & pleased to foolaround with fate and numbered lanes.In fine soled shoes with wrists well bracedwe face our pyramidly foe and stoopor bow, then sweep our arm first downthen up and back again to chase those pinsand splatter them. Each bowler is a soldierwith war face crying out / in victorymuch like defeat. The real foe’s not in front of us.It lurks in minds that mind too wellthat think when thought is not a cure.Those sounds are so inhumanwhen they fail or fall or foul out–– our facecontorts in shame: it does look goodto ridicule our pains before our teammates can.Bowling becomes us / America is proud.Our loyalty is to our balls and brand of beerthat’s cheap and tastes not like our lives.With finger food and cigaretteswe feed the fight / the hype avengeda piece of hope, a freedom gained.Each soldier finds a place to standa chance to right the wrongs we’ve doneourselves, those pins, each vacant night.With two or three, the argument / It’s onto finger, fist or palm our ballsoff-center though they be / our barely legalleague minds blur of splits & sleepers, hooks & straightsa nudge, a wink & pink flamingo luck or lovecould all end / without a perfect score.To strike out . . . is a good thingwith thirty points a frame, and every game a lossunless you rag & polish, dust & preysome excuse – a ball, too drunk, the wet or drylane of the night – is conjured from the live décorand leaves us down, not out, but hatingbowling pins, each Thursday night, the chantsYou suck. I rock. It’s only practice league.

Just Kibbe believes in the power of words to transform lives. Words are not just concepts. They are cows to be milked, earth to be mined and cars to be driven around the world to any number of destinations. He is 29, lives in Tujunga and works as the editor for a local, weekly news magazine.

Bonnie Naradzay has a poem in the February 7, 2007 issue of JAMA, a poem in the Spring 2007 issue of SLAB, and poems in numerous online journals. She is a student in the Stonecoast MFA program and seeks signs of hope for this dark planet.

I move as stealthilyAs thieves and secret weaponsOf the sky among the crowded citiesOf my nation state.Insubstantial and anonymous, a wraithBeneath the noticeOf my solid fellow citizensWho know I work the jobsThey can or would disdain.I am a smuggler,My self is contraband.

I can be seenIn the shape of loiterersWho linger on the cornersOf our neighborhoodsWaiting for the vehiclesThat come to offer work

But I would be invisibleWithin this mighty BabylonA shadow on the sunlit wallsIn public plazas uninhabitedWhen millions are insideTheir homes or at their desks.I love the empty neighborhoods of nightThe buzzing thrumming cityWhen it slowsAnd skeleton crewsAnd revelers or solitary citizensPossess the streetsAs streams of traffic flowsAnd neon glowsI move most freely thenAware I am aliveAnd carry worlds within.

Michael Graves is a widely published poet and has a full-length collection Adam and Cain (Black Buzzard, 2006) nominated for a PEN Osterweil Award. Graves was the recipient of a substantial grant from the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation in 2004.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Last winter the town of Newfane, Vermont became one the first in the country to pass a resolution against the un-American invasion and occupation of Iraq. Still standing up for principles in which they believe, residents of Newfane and other Vermont towns recently passed a resolution urging impeachment of the President.

A Boston paper quoted angry tourists threatening to take their money elsewhere.

maybe they got their wires crossedthe air sizzling with wordsdown here belowjust so much staticbouncing off those landlocked peaks

maybe they’re too few and scatteredno critical mass of uncritical thinkingjust do-it-yourself small-townersand some old farmersstill mucking out stalls by handblowing steam across the rims of theircoffee mugs in the town hallprob’ly still in their overalls

why can’t they be like us reg’lar folksand go along to get alongfollow all the orders from headquartersdon’t go running anything up the flagpolejust salute salute salutethen go shopping or somethingand quit asking so damn many questions

tell you whatwe’ll use the power of the pennyto bend their fancy talk to our willtheir fine whitewashed fencesand pretty steeples can all go to hellour by-god megaphones of glorywill show you how a 30% dis-count really works

so watch us carefully nownothing up our sleevewe can do this evensteeped in self-induced sleepminds closed to within a fare-thee-wellof a pig’s pucker holeunfurl thatfor what we saythe republic now stands

Robert Emmett tries to fathom the mind of the 30% and how they hold so much sway so uncritically from the frontwoods of Michigan where March is roaring.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

A dentist from East Sussex has been erased from the Dentists Register after he pulled out an 87-year-old grandmother's teeth without anaesthetic "to teach her a lesson."

--BBC News, January 12, 2007.

The mother clips this article from the paper and has it blown upand frames it in a bright pink frame and puts it on the wall in heryounger daughter's room. And she says this is what happens tolittle girls who fake sore throats when they're supposed to go to thedentist, who rest their tongues on their braces and break them thentell the dentist to go ahead and pull them off, they don't care iftheir teeth are straight or not and they never want to get married.But the little girl, ten and small for her age, knows this is one morefairy tale. From the Bright Pink Fairy Book, probably.

Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts(Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

My wife sleeps on the couch,Fagged out from late nights at work all weekAnd entertaining out-of-town friendsLast night and marching in the antiwarDemo this afternoon on a sunny winter’sDay. We showed up because we knewWe’d never be as tired as our troopsIn Iraq , and because we want them outOf there. We showed up out of habitBecause we marched in the winterOf ’03 to try to prevent the warAnd in ’05 and ’06 to try to stop the warAnd yesterday we showed up, like sheep,To try again to end the war. We joined agingVeterans of protest against VietnamAnd the first Gulf War, peacenikTeachers and students, old TrotsAnd Socialists, even membersOf the Revolutionary Communist Party,USA —all of us smelling of must or mothballs,Needing a haircut or shave, bundledUp against the late-winter chill,Barely able to keep the antiwar chantsGoing a full minute, hoisting our placardsAt a thread of spectators, a few clappingBut most gawking like out-of-townersAt this ragtag spectacle of druidsPerforming their vernal rites longAfter their religion had obsolesced.Four years after Shock and AweSlammed Baghdad and shook our faith,Six years after our war leaders were swornIn, and three months after the Dems took overCongress and changed not a thing,We showed up again, our hope as threadbareAs the clothes of the oldest Lefties on parade.

George Held's chapbook W Is for War (Cervena Barva Press, 2006) contains two poems nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

The US Government reminds me a lot of my ex-husband. This is not a compliment to either.

Violence is their shared language. The desire to control everything, everyone around them invades every fiber of their personalities.Force, the weapon of the weak, is their weapon of first choice.

Both are Bullies.

Saturated with dangerous power and damaged by paranoia.Acting in ways that they can defend as rational but disconnected from the real-life consequencesof their actions, they reap unacknowledged tragedies and leave their devastations like slug-trailsbehind them, messes for others to clean up and live with and somehow, survive.

They are men that have no idea that compromise, as a concept, requires a movement, a risk, a sacrifice from all sides.

Nor do they understand that their risk, their sacrifice, mustreally matter, must be an honest offering, a giving up of something valuable.Without this knowledge, their gestures of peace, are by their very nature, hollow of any truth.

My ex-husband And the men who run my governmentboth seem to live in a mindset, a black or white duality, where it is imperative to create thedesperately desired illusion of rightness.And to balance their world view, they create

a monster

one who carries the weightof the responsibility for all that is wrongin their world.

Addicted, obsessed with their insatiable need for satisfaction, willfully forcing themselves into other’s lives, irresponsibly consuming the life blood of others, over bloated, pompous, selfish and dangerous commanding, demanding order and perfection from others while willfully failing to take care of their own.

My ex-husband behaves a lot like my government, and this morning I wake feeling very connected to the people of Iraq.

Victoria Day is a priestess, mother, dancer, creatrix and activist doing her best to work and play in a spot of purple-tinted blue in the middle of a very red state. All that she does is connected with, inspired by and a homage to her deep belief in the Divine and the necessity for peace in our lives.

Monday, March 19, 2007

A tree fell while you were sleepingand it was the last of its kindin the last plot in whichsuch a tree can grow. Some birds flew away from itwithout knowing where to landand have not been seensince the sun cast the tree’s last shadowlike an arm reachingto grip the earth. And unbeknownst to youin the night, warshipsgathered at the coast of a countryregarded as an ally yesterday and an enemytoday as the first attack beginsin the name of a causewhich seems not to concern you and evenif it did you have been forbidden to objectdue to a law that passed at midnightwhen you thought you were dreaming.While you were sleepingyour house was condemned, your assetswere seized, and your clothes were taken awayas evidence of a crimeyet to be identified. The forecast for todayis cool at first, then warmer. No measurable wind.Good morning.

David Chorlton plans to take poetry to local nature festivals this springtime and hopes to find a way to an audience unused to poetry but aware of the beauty in wildlife. He goes into the Arizona landscape to be refreshed after too much exposure to bad news in the city and teaches a weekly writing class for seniors of all ages in Scottsdale.

The two played Irish last night, lucky,shamrocked, plucked from contentioninto Guinness and joshing and sentiment.The bar hummed with dancing lephrechaunsand shameless tries at broad broguesfrom those Kevins, Mollys, and Seanswhose only Emerald Isle is a green-crepeaisle at Safeway pitching dyed daisies.Swilling from the passing pitchers,innocent of Bloody Sunday, Falls Road, Britbombardment, fungal famine, indentures--they raised mugs and pinched the greenless,then bore homeward real Irish drunkenness.

Every holiday breeds its afterbirth,sterile tomorrows--say, March eighteenth.Like a fertile island waking to hunger,the day's vector’s lost, its tide out,its pantries empty, its final treaties sunk.Pat and Megan prowl the park, ache-headed,locked in civil combat, when--begorra!--where clouds abate over the foothills,skeins of snow sift like trigger fingersunclenched to sprinkle sugar over the blissof a union too sweet for rancor. Acrossa border long wired and mined,they reach to risk a kiss.

Among several sites and quarterlies that have published Lee Patton's work: Country Mouse, Innisfree, The Threepenny Review, The Massachusetts Review, The California Quarterly, and Hawaii-Pacific Review. Among many anthologies: Hawaii-Pacific Review’s Best of Decade, XY-Files, including the title poem in What’s Become of Eden: Poems of Family at Century’s End. Among other literary activities and awards: Finalist the 2001 Lambda Awards for best novel (Nothing Gold Can Stay), 2006 Colorado Authors League short fiction award, The Borderlands Playwrights Prize in 1993 (The Houseguest) and the 1996 Ashland New Playwrights (Orwell in Orlando).

Saturday, March 17, 2007

In no way sought, the knowledge thatAnna Nicole Smith was buried in a pink gownfrom a pink church in the Bahamasis slathered on the surface of my brain like margarine.I did not want or need to but DO know these things.Standing at my kitchen windowscanning the dirty snow outside

I pour a cup of coffee and wonder how it isI know about the pink church, I know aboutthe pink dress and do not as effortlessly knowhow many were killed today, how manybombed, maimed, burned, how manykidnapped and murdered last week,how many this month, this year, this war?

I check the front page for a box scoreand find the weather. I flick a switchand stock quotes crawl across the screenwhere names of the forever young should be.I turn a knob and hear the horrible cost - ofPaul McCartney’s divorce -

If this were a charity drive, there would bea sign on the lawn of city hall withfigures updated every day,a bar graph, a shaded pie chart or redrising in a giant thermometer,red rising as we all giveso generously to the campaign.

Jan C. Snow writes in Lakewood, Ohio, one city west of Cleveland on the Great Lake Erie. She has published widely in a variety of venues and is heard regularly on “Weekend Radio.” Among her recent honors are a Pushcart Prize nomination and an Ohio Poetry Day award.

Friday, March 16, 2007

On the jetty waves thunder by, while I searchfor an image to hang my understanding on. Awarenessfloats with glittering ice crystals in the stratosphere.Each a unique hexagon frozen from the contrailof a bomber pregnant with a cargo of ruined bridges,severed limbs, and bawling orphans. Only the safely deadescape the rumble of Katyusha rockets and 500-lb bombs.

Who assigns good and evil? And according to whose interests?The president plays liar’s poker with the Washington press corps,while minions dispatch cans of brutal aid. “Want Jesus with that?”Business paints the rainbow gray. If you don’t like it, join the hungrywatching Paris Hilton stub out a cigarette in uneaten cheesecake.

Back in the courtyard of hurt feelings, poet’s words limp in iambs –drag, step, drag, step, drag, step. How hard it is to sing,when I must sing of terror. Yet I light candles in sacred dancescursing the raven to come forward. Eyes soaked in the blood of tears,I will print no line before its time.

Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics, has practiced Buddhism for over twenty years, and has published over a hundred poems in small press journals such as American Tanka, Anthology Magazine, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, Edgz, The Kaleidoscope Review, Limestone Circle, The Magee Park Anthology, The Publication, Pudding, Sacred Journey, San Diego Writer’s Monthly, Slipstream, Tidepools, Vortex of the Macabre, Zillah, and others. His chapbooks have won honorable mentions twice in the San Diego Book Awards.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

The Delta Zeta newsletter wants to “put an endto the media circus that is underminingthe educational experience, and causingundo emotional stress and damage for all parties.”

That must be the educational experiencethat caused the misspelling of “undue”and the use of “for” for “to” after “damage.”No, let’s not let the cliché “media circus” do

more damage to the education of Delta Zetes,who claim they were mistreated when the Timesreported the National had forced the Localto purge itself of its diversity—the Oriental,

the fat, the black, the ugly, and the drudgewho spends her time studying insteadof putting on makeup and putting outfor the Dekes and Betas. Hey, don’t misjudge

these gals—they just want to be proud of their House.Who wants to be seen on campus with a loserinstead of a blonde beauty or a bouncy brunette?Oh, excuse the stereotypes. It’s just the Greeks

have a way of molding frat men in the imageof Adonis and sorority girls as Helen of Troy.Oh boy! And don’t we pick our friends by the waythey look and dress and walk and talk—as much

like us as possible? And how can diversitycompete with all those hand-in-hand Greekcouples who look like real brothers and sisters?Now, that’s what I call campus harmony.

George Held publishes widely online and in print. His tenth collection of poems, The Art of Writing and Others, will appear from Finishing Line Press this year. He lives in Greenwich Village with his wife, Cheryl.

3.14.The sun, the globe, the full moon, the tire, the mandala. It's a world of circles. She learned this in Colonel Clymie's geometry class, her sophomore year of high school, before she felt abandoned by the other students, outcast, weird. She quit school at fifteen. Now she reads of a fifteen year-old girl who can rattle off the first fifty digits, half of what her father can recite, and her father's proud of her. A man recites Pi, 1000 numbers at a time, into a tape recorder, then gives it high and low notes, the rhythms of a Mozart composition. A poet mixes in numbers with lines from Prufrock or The Raven. 3.1415. Just making it from today to tomorrow.

Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts(Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Halliburton “said it was making the moves [from Texas to Dubai] to position itself better to gain contracts in the oil-rich Middle East.” [CNN.com – Mar. 12, 2007]

a figurehead is lurking as we sleepbut some of us refuse to close our eyeswe contemplate him shadowing the veepwhile up for sale our tolls of death arise

with oil incorporated in the eastamidst such profit margins that expandon winds of war as compromised is peace& devastation’s raze obtains command

imagine if the white house truly caresabout democracy beyond these shoresor if instead america holds sharesin assets which the target country stores

so let us understand thru common centswhen money moves along lines of defense

Carol Elizabeth Owens is an attorney and counselor-at-law in Western New York (by way of Long Island and New York City). She enjoys technical and creative writing. Her poetry has been published in several print and virtual publications. Ms. Owens loves the ways in which words work when poetry allows them to come out and play.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Blair's withdrawing British forces?Cheney says: "It's the best of courses.Deriders may think it indicates stressBut Deciders know it means successBasra's becoming a haven of peace,Why else would British troops decrease?Iraqi units have been trained and burnishedThe deadliest weapons have been furnishedNow they can handle their own defense."

The President agrees this makes perfect sense:"Around Baghdad," he admits, "things are iffy,And our surge won't fix them in a jiffyBut two or three years are all we needFor the Pax Iraqus to succeed.Gates, my new Rummy, assents absolutely(I didn't appoint him to dispute me.)Condi concurs when I say dross is goldAnd tells world leaders what she's been told.With advisors like these, steady and strongNo way my decisions can ever be wrong."

Honesty is the grimmest fatalityOf an Administration mired in unreality.If we don't defuse this obsessive warriorWe're going to be infinitely sadder and sorrier.

Anne G. Davies is a fund-raising writer by profession and a writer and versifier by avocation. Her work has been published on local and regional papers. She lives in Lexington, Massachusetts.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

On the grounds of Saddam's largest and most impressive palace,The soldiers divide into teams, one softball, one bat, three gloves.Everyone swings easily, no homeruns, just liners or grounders.Somewhere a roadside bomb explodes. Beyond, a sniper waits.The game drags on, all tied up. No one wants to win. Inside the palace,Marble fades, coated with plaster dust, desks overturned, piss in the fountain.The men rankle when a shot rings out and when one soldier bare hands the softballNear the wall. Still tied. Night drops in the 12th. "We'll finish it tomorrow."

Paul Brooke lives in Ames, Iowa, where he counts the days until his two younger brothers return from Iraq. His work has appeared in numerous literary journals including The North America Review, Rocky Mountain Review, and Isotrope.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

[A found poem based on Newt Gingrich’s comments after being asked about having an extramarital affair while leading the charge against President Clinton over Monica Lewinsky, and if that might be considered hypocritical.]

Certainlyat times I’ve fallen short of my own standards.at times I’ve fallen short of God’s standards,there were timeswhen I was praying,when I was doing wrong thingsbutI was still doing them.

I look back on those times asperiods of weakness,periods I'm not proud of.I ran the risk ofbeing deeply embarrassed,butthe president committed a felony.

I did not render judgmenton another human being;I drew a line in my mind.As a leaderof the governmenttrying to uphold the rule of lawI had no choiceexceptto move forward—you cannot accept perjuryin your highest officials.

“The honest answer is yes.”*

*Newt Gingrich, 3/9/2007

SuzAnne C. Cole writes from a studio in the woods in the Texas Hill Country and finds herself, a bit to her surprise, becoming more and more liberal as she ages. Perhaps it's thinking about the world her three grandsons and forthcoming granddaughter will inherit. A writer for many years, she's published more than 300 poems, essays, short stories, and plays in a variety of publications from commercial to academic. She was a juried poet at the 2003 and 2005 Houston Poetry fests and a featured poet at the 2004 event.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Yes. Hello. How are you? What’s the news?We don’t have electricity, there are bombings andshootings, what are you talking about?Yes. Early this morning. Assassinated. Yes.These are the fruits of democracy…rubble, tanks,barbed wire.No, the bodies are quickly removed.Take a breath. Slowly. Open your mouth.People are not going to Friday prayer, afraid ofexplosions or arrest.As for my leg…the doctors cannot do the surgery.Yes. Helicopters are flying over the city, above thechaos.Brother, I recorded everyone in the neighborhood withchronic disease, everyone too old to walk, theorphans, the wounded, the maimed, the releasedprisoners, the widows.Excuse me, brother, we recorded them day afterday…they never stopped….We tried to give everyone something, a bit of food,medicine, a blanket, or hope, God willing.Why shouldn’t we help them, even if they are threehundred or three thousand or three million?Brother, tell me, do religions preach injustice?Do they call for killing, raping, and abusing otherpeople?I tell you, brother, my leg hurts but my heart hurtsworse.My leg turns gray but my heart turns black.My brain is always pounding.Don’t listen to the news reports, brother.Don’t listen to the exiles in Amman or New York,or to the people with too much money.The inhabitants of Falluja are suffering shortages ofdrinking water, food, medicine.The American Army forbids entry.Nobody sees, nobody hears.Falluja, Ramadi, only a short time ago the Americansnever heard of them,now they must possess them at all costs.Our doctors were bombed out the first day.Over 100,000 people fled to Amiriyya.They brought with them the sick and wounded,what belongings they could carry.Tell me, brother, when can I ask George Bush why hesent soldiers all this way to kill Iraqis and destroytheir homes?Saddam Hussein killed many Iraqis,so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!The foreign jihadis kill Iraqis,so the Americans say, kill more Iraqis!I ask you, brother, where is the justice in a bomb? Where is democracy in a hail of bullets?George Bush can say what he likes, but he cannotcontrol the situation.He can bring war, but not peace.He can say ‘freedom’ but no one feels free,even to venture into the street or onto his roof.They call the main street here, ‘Vietnam Street,’and the graffiti says, ‘fake USA.’Well, they don’t have the spelling down to say ‘fuckUSA,’so they say, ‘fake USA,’ okay?I tell you, the word ‘democracy’ will bring a bittertaste to Iraqi mouths for generations.Yes? No! Yes! What can we expect?We are an occupied country with a puppet government.Open your hands. Close your hands.We won’t vote for anyone from outside,no matter how many car dealerships he owned inCalifornia.Honestly, extremism turns me off. People should bemoderate, live and let live.Even now, we see ourselves as a civil resistance.But when they bomb you…moderation is the first thingto blow up in your face.Then how can I neglect my brother?We have the same religion, the same country, we drinkwater from the same river.Even our blood is the same.How can my brother’s life not be as sacred as my own?God has entrusted us with this country. How can we let someone steal it?Yes, I need to eat, sleep, stay alive.Take a deep breath, please, yes, thank you.Open your eyes. Open your mouth. Exhale.Peace be upon you.Brother, you ask me if I can go on living in thiscountry,and I say, yes I can.My daughter says, please, there is no country. Ourcountry is lost.My wife says, don’t be suicidal!My Iraq, my Iraq…God willing;God willing.

Edgetone Records is releasing the poetry and jazz CD Robert Anbian and the Unidentified Flying Quartet this April. Robert Anbian has published four collections, most recently WE, Parts 1 & 2 (Night Horn Books) and the chapbook Blame the Powerful: Political Poems (War and Peace Press). His work appears in the anthologies Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Confront the Holocaust (Northwestern) and Practicing Angels: A Contemporary Anthology of San Francisco Bay Area Poetry (Seismograph), and in periodicals including City Lights Review, North Coast Literary Review, and the online Rif/t.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Celebrating synapses of dubiousauthenticity the upcomingvote in the Congress of Clownsheavily lobbied by well-dressed andwell-endowed slaves ofthe meat and sugar industries-

Investment strategies are swept fromcoffer tables of the rich and fatuous,ground into floors of the Age of Reason-

Caught in the maw of globalwarming the rabbit-eyed wetlandsshrink to a torrid vanishing point.That's not fair in the witch's mirroror the evaporating glacieror anywhere else by the timedusty African villagers starve andthe last light bulb for 100miles flickers out-

But the sermon's been canceled in favorof 24-hour barbecue and polarbears smoke cigarettes in the shadeof Alaskan taverns and you,if you carry a six figuremortgage, watch yourself-

they're itching for a fight.

Michael Shorb's work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including Nation, Michigan Quarterly Review, California Quarterly, and The Sun. He writes frequently about political, historical and environmental issues, and lives in San Francisco, CA.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

how can i care about another hundred casualtiespiles and piles mounting up in pounds ofdead meat on their streetsi don’t care if the meat is theirs or oursi don’t care if it is men or womenchickens or children or donkeys

same as i don’t care about the heaps of pounds of burgers dispensedby mcdonald’s in one year or twenty years or fiftyi am certain it must be in the billions by now but i will say thisat least that fast-meat giant puts outfor real exchange in return for its primetimeto show off its meat

only it’s we who have to cough out the billionsfor the tens upon tens of thousands of pounds of bloodysomewhat skinned and oft-times conveniently partially bonedand much too often so blown-to-bits-it-can’t-be-shownraw man-meat voraciously consumed by our t.v.sto teach us not to carewhere our consumption dare not matter anymore

and it does seem that it is workingbecause i do not care

but i do wondermight the fluid nature of blood plasma become more frighteningin the last days when we all cave to wal-marteach of us squeezed into its aisles there and hackingout bucks for a high-wired much wider so much flatter new plasma t.v.

or might that fluidity become even more delicious more and morethus suspending the red of its redseven more extravagantly than ever beforelike gloss lipstick on the whore we have not yet dreamed because she can only be seen IF one is wide-awakeas she torpedoes thru our own front door

the poet Spiel is a tight-wired author painting naked portraits of humankind, thin-layering its hirsute beastiness and, on rare occasion, revealing its humanity. his spoken word c.d. "breathing back words," a collaboration with music/soundman Jack Moss, will be realeased in late 2007. his most recent chap, "come here cowboy: poems of war," is available from www.puddinghouse.com.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

1.Use duct tape. Secure the wrists and ankles, wrapping tape around several times. Make sure the astronaut's hands are tied behind his back. Duct tape, once started, rips easily. Talk softly but firmly while restraining him. Or her. Say you are doing this to insure his safety.

2.Was it The Bell Jar? David and Lisa? I Never Promised You a Rose Garden? She's fairly certain it was The Bell Jar. There was a scene near the start of a woman packed in ice to calm her down. Better than shock treatment, she supposes. Her aunt got shock treatments for years before she killed herself.

3.Once the person stops screaming or crying or flailing about, offer a Haldol pill. This should dispel whatever monsters are in his arms and legs. If he or she refuses, feel free to crush the pill and inject it. Remember that anti-depressants take weeks to become effective, and therefore won't be of use here.

4.Haldol. Mellaril. Tuinal. She's been on all the antipsychotics around in the early Sixties. The doctor told her they were sleeping pills and, like the child she was at the time, she believed him. She gulped Mellaril that time she tried to kill herself. She should have realized then there was something wrong.

5.In the Fifties, when she was growing up, wives and mothers kept their psychiatrists hidden in their closets. Divorce was all but unheard-of, and one couple who separated then tried to reconcile was killed when their house caught fire. In the Fifties, when NASA compiled this 1000 page manual, astronauts were heroes. John Glenn was elected to congress and was close friends with the Kennedys.

6.Everything in that manual was based on the Army's guidelines, then never updated. She read an article in yesterday's paper about how soldiers in Iraq with severe but not life-threatening head wounds were being observed for a day then rushed right back into battle. Surprise, surprise. All in the mind. Shock.

7.Love him. Feed him. When you aim that high, carry food that makes you smile. Curry dishes brought by the son of an Indian. The imitation sushi with pre-packaged salmon and wasibi sauce brought by the Russian. Wasabi squirting everywhere. The smell uncontained. Better to have taken along dried wasibi peas. That would be her comfort food. The spice heading her headache off somewhere between the nose and eyes. She used to think it was sinus, but knows better now. And she used to dream of a space helmet contraption, air conditioned, keeping her cool in summer. Everything would have been fine were there not this heat, these hot flashes.

8.She travels too, you know. Her plane delayed nearly three hours, a later plane getting out on schedule while she nurses a few grapes in the lounge. She understands what the astronauts must feel, waiting for shuttles that don't take off. Just waiting. She understands anger, she understands disgust. Then to find a woman already in her seat, a computer case there's no room for, all because she waited until her row was called: she understands Haldol. But at least they get to fly off into a sunset, weak though it is.

Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Balancing Acts(Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.

Monday, March 05, 2007

I empowered myself todayby turning Oprah offafter the first five minutes.I watched the fifty thousand dollarAmazon.com Use Your Life Awardgo to help fifty thousanddollars worth of womenget cancer treatment this week,and then I turned it off. I walked awayfrom the rest of the hour,from Dr. Phil’s win-win conflictresolution training. I confrontedmy talk-show codependence, the corporate sponsors, and allthe helpyourself helpyourself first philosophyI’d swallowed to date. Oprah, I said, No more.I can no longer abide by your contradictions.It is no longer okay to talk about the history of slaveryand planters that block your parking spacewith the exact same urgency anymore.It isn’t okay to celebrate charity and say nothingof the Clintons killing welfare. Irefuse to be movedby the woman selling used bridal gownsto pay the mortgages of strangers.She’s an example to us all.But bridal gowns, Oprah?You might be much smarter than I amand have done more with your painthan I’ll ever do with mine.But think of it this way:If I give up the showI’ll have more time to cook healthyand to write in my Gratitude Journal,which I will always be grateful forand where I am writing this nowwith its soft cloth binding and purple leaves.Just like the Use Your Life Award recipientsand the people they help will always be grateful,as will all the Penguin Putnam authors you’ve pushedto date. I don’t mean to sound ungratefulfor the Book Club, Oprah. It’s goodto get America reading, but why tell meevery book is made to make me thinkmore about me? Maybe it’s just mebut I’ve noticed the more I think of methe more depressed I get. And that’s why it’s timeto pull the plug, to cut the cord, to take back the hourbetween 4:00 and 5:00 p.m.and to try to inspire others to do the same.Thank you bringing Tina Turner’s Dream Tourinto every American homeand for reminding us to change our clothesfirst thing after work. America needstransition, you said. So now when I come homeand run my essential salts bathor slide into my best silk boxers,I will face and embrace my aloneness alone.How I will miss your laughterand seeing what guests you pickand the audience’srainstorm of claps and cheerstheir tears of surrendertheir tears of surrendertheir tears.

Debora Lidov is a hospital social worker, living and practicing in Brooklyn . She has taught poetry and fiction workshops at Hunter College, City University of New York, and her poems and reviews have appeared in Descant, Entertainment Weekly, Threepenny Review, and Sojourner. She holds writing degrees from Hunter College and Sarah Lawrence College , as well an MSW from NYU.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

I travel with a heavy backpackstrapped across my shoulders,and a plastic bag of clothes.When you are homeless,these are the things you carry.And tucked away somewhereare the memories of a warthat are still fresh.No yellow ribbons greeted mewhen I returned home.Now I soldier on each daytrying to find some place to call my own,riding late night buses to sheltersonly to be rousted out at dawn.A private first class,now a second class war veteranwalking the dark streets.Home but without a home.

Timothy M. Connelly has been a soldier, a reporter, and without a home. He now has a home and has discovered poetry as a way of expressing his feelings about war, poverty and the human condition.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

I was asleep when the bus hit the wall on the overpass and tumbled,God I have no idea how far down slowly rotating up side down.I looked out of the window and saw the pavement rushing toward me.

What did it feel like? Well, it felt like I was suddenly trappedinside a Jackson Pollack dry point etching, c. 1944, with all sortsof black figures jumbled in a twirl of heads and arms thrown into free fall.

In one terrible moment, I suddenly realized that I was going to die.Then I had a sense of resolution and peace, even though I was going to die.Then I felt like I was being compacted into a ball of bones and blood.

What? No I haven’t been seen by my trauma counselor yet.Do you think I’m all right? Yes, I do feel different. I suddenly havea need to articulate the darker side of post-war abstract expressionism.

I hope Coach doesn’t find out.

Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s poetry and prose is published in literary and popular journals all over the world, over 100 publications per year. His most recent book is Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005]. Look for his forthcoming book entitled American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing] in May 2007. Visit his website at www.garylehmann.blogspot.com.

Friday, March 02, 2007

A few miles from the White House, in Building 18,a soldier sits in his wheelchair, drooling, but is alertenough to hear he has been ordered to reportto a base in Germany. No one can find his paperwork;no one will fix his wheelchair. His platoon seargeantwas just discharged from another wing of Walter Reed.His eyes are blank, his speech slurred, his concentrationtenuous. The mice are in better health, and show upmore often than the doctors. The roaches, on the otherhand, lie belly up on rotting boards, waiting for someoneto finish their paperwork so they can have properautopsies and free up space for the next occupants.

Margarita Engle is a botanist and the Cuban-American author of three books about the island, most recently The Poet Slave of Cuba, a Biography of Juan Francisco Manzano (Henry Holt & Co., 2006). This historical novel-in-verse has received various honors, including awards from the International Reading Association, and the American Library Association. Short works appear in journals such as Atlanta Review, Caribbean Writer, and Hawai'i Pacific Review, as well as Poets Against the War, and other online journals. Recent literary journal honors include a Pushcart Prize nomination, and semi-finalist selection for the Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize. Margarita lives in central California, where she enjoys hiking and helping her husband with his volunteer work for wilderness search-and-rescue dog training programs.

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